


Bad Case of Loving You

by thalialunacy



Category: Leverage
Genre: Comfort, Ficlet, First Time, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one where Hardison is sick and eliot is bad at it</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Case of Loving You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Canon_Is_Relative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/gifts).



> my dear canonisrelative: i would give you a gift-bearing eliot to help you through your illness if i could. this is a poor substitution, I know, but it will have to suffice. <3

Parker leaves him jelly beans.

They're wrapped, with a ribbon and cellophane everything, and he wonders how they got to him unwrinkled because he knows she didn't do that fancy stuff herself. He knows they're from her because they're left inside his shower. Not that the rest of the crew wouldn't break into his apartment, but they probably wouldn't see the humor of putting little rolly balls of candy death into a bathtub.

This theory is proven correct a few hours -- well, let's be honest, one nap later, when there's a bottle of whiskey, and, the next day, a bear of honey, both sitting nonchalantly on his kitchen counter -- the only clear surface in his place, to be real with you. The former is completely predictable mid-range Irish whiskey and the latter is frou-frou organic free range or whatever the hell it is when it's bees, cheerful and environmentally conscious.

Hardison holds the bottles up, peering at the labels and thinking of Nate and Sophie and crazy people, and he's about to put it all in his cupboard of holding -- but a cough comes up deep from his lungs and tastes _terrible_ and he's just so over this shit.

He reaches for his TARDIS mug.

\---

Then Sophie calls him, and she doesn't mention any of them, even in that non-mentiony way of hers. He coughs in her ear repeatedly and she just talks about tea and brandy, of all things.

"Not honey?" he says. He's on the mend but he still isn't up for his usual soliloquizing.

"Eugh, no. That's old wives tales. Brandy's much better."

Hardison picks the bear up off the counter and turns it over in his hand a few times. "Huh."

\---

The next day, when he's pretty much better but not ready to leave his blanket- and WoW-fort, Hardison does some thinking. Then he goes to bed, and pretends to take a nap.

\---

The break-in is solid, professional. But not Parker. He can hear someone, for one, and there's no wandering steps, no meandering through personal space for precious--to either owner or thief--items.

He opens the door of his bedroom silently, and peers around into the apartment, his eyes narrowed. On the counter is a tupperware tub of what Hardison can only assume is the best damn chicken soup he's ever had in his life.

And the apartment door is closing behind a familiar whiff of brown hair.

"Oh, no," Hardison says out loud. "Not this time."

And Eliot's quick, but Hardison's right there and besides, there are times in life when no one is actually wanting to escape.

The door shuts and they're both on the inside, and Hardison is satisfied. For now. "It was you."

"Dunno what you're talking about."

"Eliot."

"It's just chicken soup."

"And I'm just a black dude in a scarf."

A corner of Eliot's mouth twitches. They stand there for a while longer, and Hardison's just about to-- do something fierce, but he's not all the way not-sick so he's really not sure what.

But Eliot takes that weight off his shoulders, leaning into his space with clear intent, with that focused look he gets sometimes.

And it's not that Hardison's not totally and completely on that train, box car dining car and caboose, but… He can't resist. "Hey, whoa."

Eliot stills. "What, I thought--"

"I'm still sick, yo."

Eliot's eyes narrow. "How sick?"

"Real sick." Hardison tries real hard to look real pathetic.

Eliot's lips thin out like he's pressing them together to try not to laugh. Bingo. "It's been like a week."

"It's been three days."

"You just trying to get more presents out of me?"

Hardison tips his chin up. There's still very little space between their bodies. "Depends."

"On?" Eliot's voice is down to the roughest of grumbles.

"What you got?"

"What I got depends on how sick you--" His face opens up, and he brings up a hand, close to Hardison's face. "You know, what, no, I am not having this conversation with you."

Hardison grins. He can't decide whether he'd rather look at the ridiculous crease between Eliot's eyes or the annoyed slant of his lips. "What, no banter?"

"Shut up," Eliot growls, his hand sliding around to pull Hardison down to him. "You got chicken soup. Now you get to shut up."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I've Got it Bad, and I Got it Good](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971824) by [Canon_Is_Relative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative)




End file.
